


A Woman Always Knows

by Unrepentant_Marvelite



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Coming Out, F/M, Homecoming, Internalized Homophobia, Korean War, Military Backstory, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unrepentant_Marvelite/pseuds/Unrepentant_Marvelite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira knows Charles better than anyone else in the entire world. She knows all his secrets, all his stories, all his sins. But in the past year, he has been trying to survive the fires of the far-away crucible of war. She worries that the man who will emerge is not the same as the one who went in. She doesn't think to worry, however, that he might come back very much the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Woman Always Knows

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and rights belong to Marvel. This storyline is inspired by the comic canon, specifically the verse dealing with Charles' time as a soldier in the Korean War and his relationship with Moira in that period.

“Yes, John, you’re absolutely right, but really, I’ve got to get going now--”

“Oh, really? Well, if you’re in a rush…”

“Yes, ok, talk to you later, I’ve a post-doc waiting!”

Moira practically slams the door in his face and rolls her eyes as she makes her hurried exit. Och, but that man can talk! And she’s late for this interview already, not the best impression, you’re making, old girl, but that old windbag! He just doesn’t know when to--!

“Oh, for Heaven’s sakes!” The topmost files on her teetering stack drift off and she tries to keep it all balanced but overcorrects and-- “Bloody fuck!” she cries as the whole stack flies apart across the hall.

 _Not very ladylike_ , her mother’s voice chides in her head as she scrambles to pick things up. The hall opens into the main entryway and it would be just her luck that this new fellow, this post-doc applying to work in her lab, would be right nearby to hear her swearing like a sailor.

“That _would_ be terribly embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” says a low voice behind her and Moira frowns, because certainly she didn’t say that aloud… she freezes. She looks up to see everyone in the hall, all the secretaries, the lab aides, the students hurrying to class, everyone stopped and grinning at her expectantly. She turns slowly, still crouched on the ground because it can’t be true, it _can’t_ be…!

And there he is. Sitting on his haunches, ruffling a token few of her papers he’s gathered and grinning at her like a damn loon.

A strangled (and _very_ unladylike) noise escapes her before she launches at him, knocking him back on his bum.

“Charlie!” she shrieks in his ear and everyone’s applauding and hooting at them because he’s in his uniform, of course, and they all know who he is, what he is to her, even though they’ve not met him yet.

“Charlie,” she says again and she’s hanging off his neck like an empty-headed schoolgirl even though they’re both sprawled on the ground. She’s snotting and sobbing into his shoulder and he’s laughing and holding her _so tight_ so she knows he’s real.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?!” she finally coughs out between her sobs.

“Oh, I just happened by,” he says and she thumps him on the shoulder because that’s what he always would say those many years they were finishing their degrees together and he would turn up in her office, her lab, her flat, unannounced and proceed to spend hours talking, laughing and generally distracting her until she dropped whatever she was doing to come be with him.

He chuckles again and she can’t help but bury her head into his chest, breathe in the smell of him and feel the vibration of his laugh through her bones. Oh, God, she’s missed him so.

He’s helping her up, then, because, yes, they have been sitting in the middle of the hallway for too long now and people are coming up to them to help pick up the scattered papers and hand Charlie back his cap which he must have dropped in all the excitement.

He straightens up properly then and, Lord have mercy, he looks _delicious_ in that uniform. She reaches for him, takes his hand because she can’t bear the thought of not touching him for another second even though he’s trying to extricate them from the little crowd of well-wishers that’ve gathered and find some privacy in her office.

Once the door closes behind them she’s on him again, wrapping herself tight in his embrace. He kisses her then, not in the soft, tender way she’s come to expect from him but hard and rough with an edge of desperation to it that tells her she isn’t the only one who’s been counting the days they’ve been apart. She finds herself backed against her desk. She swipes a hand behind her to clear the surface without ever leaving his grasp. She shifts up onto the surface then and wraps her legs tight around him so they are flush, tight, together. Her mother would be stricken dead if she could ever see her like this, so brazen and openly wonton. The fact that her mother never has really warmed to Charlie anyway would simply be too much for her poor soul.

“Moira… God… Moira!” he gasps. He’s trembling, actually trembling in her arms now but instead of hiking up her skirt and having his way with her, right here, on her desk (like she has certainly _never_ imagined countless times before) he curls his head into her neck and continues to just hold her close.

“I missed you… I missed you _so_ much, darling,” he pants. And, ok, yes, it really isn’t a good idea for them to fuck like rabbits right now in the middle of her office, home of the very thin walls. Charlie can probably hear them all right now, out in the hall, sniggering over what they suspect the two of them are doing (or were about to do), tucked away from prying eyes in her office. She sighs against him because, yes, this is very nice too, to be wrapped in his arms when not ten minutes ago she was worried about him being trapped and likely horribly maimed in some godforsaken foxhole on the Korean peninsula. Yes, having him here, whole, is very nice too.

The shivers have slowed now and he pulls back enough to kiss her, gently this time, on the lips.

“No, honestly,” she says as they break apart, “How is this possible? How are you here?”

“I got four whole days Leave,” he says his eyes bright and his smile soft. “There was this ceremony I had to go to… well… it doesn’t matter, the point is they gave me Leave, permission to get out of the country if I wanted and I hopped the first transport I could find going towards you. I touched down… two hours ago,” he says with a glance to his wristwatch.

“You ridiculous man,” she scolds him fondly. She runs her hands through the spiky remains of his hair, buzzed down to a General Issue crew cut now.

And then the thought hits her, “Shit!” because she is _still_ late for her meeting even though all she wants to do is sit here with Charlie and spend every second he has left on home soil memorizing his every expression, every curve, every freckle.

He laughs at her again, and catches her hands, weaving the fingers between his own.

“Who’s this very important meeting with?” he teases as she tries to push him away so she can find her things and make herself somewhat presentable.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, you idiot! I would have cleared my schedule!”

“Moira. Who’s the meeting with?” he asks again without letting go of her hand.

“I dunno… some post-doc… damn…” because it is a fairly good point, she hasn’t a clue the fellow’s name. She scrambles for her date book, now shoved on the floor, and flips through to the right page so she can read…

“…C. F. Marko,” she looks up at him with wonder, “Wasn’t Marko your stepfather’s…?”

He gives her that slow, sly little smile he saves for when he thinks he’s done something very clever.  God, she’s missed this arrogant bastard.

So she hits him on the shoulder. “You perfect arse!” she scolds and squirms away as he tries to kiss the laugh from her lips. “What’ve I told you about doing that… mmph!” He captures her lips at last but pulls back again before it can turn from tender to something more heated. “Admit it,” he smirks, “aren’t you pleased we’ve your afternoon off now? Come on, love, take me to tea. I’ve been craving something not-from-a-tin for _weeks._ ”

\---

It’s a minor miracle they manage to collect her things and scamper into the rain outside without jumping each other’s bones again. Moira goes to hail a cab rather than walk in the rain but Charlie offers his arm instead and they stroll down the cobbled street careless of the shower.

“I’ve missed the rain,” he says smiling up at the dreary grey sky. “Well, not really, it pours in Korea plenty but… I suppose I’ve missed the English rain.”

The dark blue wool of his jacket is going to be terrible to dry, she thinks, but today, Moira doesn’t care one whit. If Charlie wants to walk in the rain, he can bloody-well walk in the rain.

She has a mind to aim them towards one of his favorite pubs down the street. They duck inside and have hardly shaken the raindrops from their clothes when Charlie seems to stiffen beside her.

“What is it? Is something the matter?”

“It’s…” he licks his lips as though they’ve gone dry in spite of the rain. “It’s… there’re a lot of people here,” he finishes, gazing vacantly at the crowded dining room.

“Aye, it’s just their usual rush… Do you want to try somewhere else?” Charlie has never minded the crowds before.

“If… if you don’t mind… maybe we’d better?” he looks at her hopefully.

“Of course! Yes, anything you like.”

They leave and continue to avoid old haunts that are even half full. They end up at a café a ways off the beaten track. It seems to restore much of Charlie’s previous good humor. This is fine, really. Not a problem, anything to see this man, this wonderful man who she loves, smile again.

He teases her and tells ridiculous stories about his comrades while they eat. He illustrates them in her mind with images laced with admiration and exasperation in equal measure. She learns more than she ever wanted to know about his bunkmate and the mischief that seems to follow him everywhere.

“I tell you, love, when this war, pardon me, when this _police action_ is over,” he rolls his eyes between bites, “you and I will have to go visit Carmen and his family in the States. I cannot wait to meet the woman unlucky enough to be married to him! He’s insane, Moira, all pilots are crazy, I don’t know how anyone stands them!”

She laughs and waves the waiter over to refill their glasses. Since she isn’t going back to work any time soon, there’s no harm in being tipsy this early in the day.

There is a warm glow following them back into the rain. She’s missed the feeling of Charlie in head more than she even realized. He bleeds so easily when he has a bit of alcohol in him and the sensation fills her with a molten warmth impervious to the icy drizzle. And God, is it a comfort to know he’s still _her_ Charlie even after so long apart and everything he must have seen.

It didn’t escape her notice, really, how he failed to talk about anything of actual substance over their meal. She tucks that observation back into a deep fold of her mind with the knowledge that anything else could hardly be expected of a man so newly returned from a warzone. If he doesn’t want to talk about how things are really going out there, well, that’s his prerogative, isn’t it? She wants him to relax while he can, preferably into her arms in the nearest bed.

Speaking of which, the snogging sickness catches up with them again as they stumble into her flat several blocks away.

Clothing litters the path from the front door to the loo. She frets for exactly thirty seconds about Charlie rumpling his uniform on the floor before he takes her hand and drags her into a hot shower with him. She forgets about the wrinkles quickly after that.

This, at least, is something they’ve done before. Charlie seems to love running his hands over her body, slick with soap and running water. Those eyes, those damn blue eyes that haunt her dreams when he is away, never leave her nakedness but his expression is unreadable. She was shy the first time they did this but now she is entirely comfortable under his gaze and ministrations. And she treasures the opportunity to return his attention in kind. She squeezes his biceps, his shoulders and cups his bum. All are leaner than she remembers and speckled now with scars she is sure she does not.

“What’s this from?” she kisses the pink slash on his forearm.

He hums and shrugs a little before answering. “Just bumps and bruises.”

Again, it is not the answer she is looking for but he closes his eyes and buries his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply so she leaves it alone. She glances down then and sees that he is beginning to get hard. Her body responds with an electric twitch somewhere deep in her groin. Fuck, but she wants to have this man inside her sometime soon!

He then insists on washing her with far too much care and gentleness to satisfy the throb of hot blood pounding in her ears and… other areas. She tries cupping his bum, pulling him close, hip to hip but he somehow contrives to maneuver her away so he can run his fingers through her hair and massage shampoo into her scalp. The redirection is successful largely because Charlie has always been unfairly talented at turning hair-washing into an erotic activity. By the time he shuts off the spray, she has made many noises she isn’t proud of in light of how little cock she’s had inside of her so far.

“Jesus, Charlie. Take me to bed _right now_ or I’ll run out into the rain and find someone who will!”

He laughs at her, peels her away from his leg she has begun humping shamelessly (how easy you are, Moira!) and lifts her fully into his arms to carry her to bed. The rain beats a gentle rhythm against the window and he kisses a trail down her belly and between her legs. _This_ they’ve only ever done once before and she can’t help but quiver and buck a little in excitement. Joe never thought to touch her like this in the many years they were together. In fact, if it weren’t for a few rumors flying around the very gossipy dormitory where she’d spent much of her impressionable youth, she’d never have known such an act existed before Charlie.

This is about the time Moira stops being able to think coherently for a while.

He spreads her open with his fingers and kisses her with as much care as he saves for anywhere else. He grazes over _exactly_ the right spot with the pad of one finger and creeps the others inside to tease her full. Then it is his tongue and lips and _oh_ how does he manage to suck and lap in just the right way _every fucking time!?_ Moira knows from her ruminations on the matter at other, less ecstatic times that the telepathy probably gives him all the information he needs to be the perfect lover… but now she couldn’t care less the reason as long as he _keeps doing it god don’t ever stop please!_

When she comes, it leaves her trembling. He crawls up her body and collapses beside her.

She is a puddle of tender flesh and exhausted nerves. She rolls over with a graceless flop and grabs at his crotch only to find him already limp in her hand. Clearly she wasn’t the only one close to the edge! He murmurs a little and tugs her wandering hand up around his waist so he can pull her close. She thinks briefly of changing the sheets before his spunk (wherever it ended up) dries to a tacky mess but then he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight and she decides to never ever move again.

“I still can’t believe this is real… that you’re here.”

He hums his contentment and kisses the crown of her head before they drift off to sleep.

\---

When she next surfaces from sleep, it is late. The rain still beats steadily against the pane and Charlie is a silhouette against the light from outside. He dangles a cigarette between his fingers and exhales smoke gently out a crack in the window. He then rests his head against the glass and for a moment, the reflection of the wet outside makes it appear as though he is crying.

“When did you start smoking?” she asks with a frown he can’t see while turned away from her so.

He smiles with no warmth and she sees his reflection close its eyes.

“They put these bloody things in our C-Rations. Right next to the toilet paper and can opener.”

She hums in acknowledgement and trails out of bed to wrap her arms around him. He starts, tenses, his hands coming to loose hers, pushing away for an instant before he takes a shuddering breath and almost relaxes.

“What’s wrong, Charlie?” she says, kissing the nape of his neck.

“Nothing… couldn’t sleep.”

His shoulders are tight cords beneath her chin. He is all lean muscle now, hardly an ounce of fat anywhere.

“I wish you could talk to me,” she says quietly.

He tightens up again under her arms. Now she regrets saying anything, she doesn’t want to ruin this time with any unpleasantness between the two of them.

He turns to face her fully now and, God, it stops her cold to see that his cheeks _are_ wet. She’s never known him to cry before: not when his, cold, sodden, bitch-of-a-mother finally passed, not when the final string he pulled to avoid the draft unraveled in his hands and not even the day he called to tell her he would be on a transport sometime in the next 36-hours bound for Japan. It seizes her heart to see him like this now.

“Moira,” he says, not meeting her eye, “God, Moira, we do need to talk.”

Oh no. Those horrible words lovers everywhere dread to hear. She gulps and her mind clicks through a rapid-fire review of every word, every gesture, every _thought_ that could be the reason for this doom. She knew when he left, she _knew_ it was possible, likely even, that this would be the end of them. How many stories has she heard of soldiers returning from war as changed men? The things they do and see, their beloved is left behind, no way to reach through the fog of war. But she had hoped, God, how she had _hoped_ …!

“No!” He seizes her hands and shakes his head fiercely. “No…! Love, you don’t understand! I… I have to explain. Please, j-just hear me out.” And he takes another shaky breath before running his hand through the remaining fuzz of his hair.

“Moira, please, _acushla_ , you must know I love you, I love you more than anyone else in the entire world…!”

She clutches at his hands just as she clutches at his words. Perhaps she was hasty in assuming the worst. But what else could wrack him like this? He looks at her like a penitent faces his confessor. What sin could he be hiding that reduces him to this state? She settles, with resignation, on the reports of Seoul, of the easy money, easy liquor and easy women to be had there.

 His grip tightens on her hands. Ah. A winner, then. The weight of it settles in her chest.

“Oh, Charlie,” and she sits down heavily on the bed. “Oh Charlie… who was she?”

He is standing alone now. She can see him trembling in the low light.

“ _Moira_ …” His voice is wrecked. “You d-don’t… you don’t understand… I didn’t, I didn’t do… _that._ ” A spark of hope, “I didn’t! But… but, God, darling, how I wanted to.” His voice breaks and for a time all she can hear is his ragged breathing. She should go to him. She should. But she is suddenly so tired she can’t hardly move.

How far did it go, she wonders. What made him stop and what’s to stop him from going through with it the next time? Men are so easily led by their hormones. She knows this, as a woman, she knows this in her bones that it is in their nature. She had always thought though… well, she had always thought Charlie was different somehow. Better evolved, maybe. That was how he would’ve put it, anyway.

Really, she discovers, she is angry. They had been together for six months and the closest of friends for three years before that and still, _still,_ he had never asked to fuck her. God knows she would’ve said yes. She thought she’d made it pretty clear to him her feelings on the matter. Was she unattractive, in some way to him? Not exotic enough maybe? Or was it, perhaps, that she was “spoiled goods,” as her mother would say if she ever learned about how far things had gone with Joe. Charlie knew, of course. He knew she was no blushing virgin. Was that why he never tried with her? Why, in God’s name, then would he go to find company in a working woman?

“Was she a… a prostitute?” she spits out. Is a whore only good enough for you if it’s a one-night affair, Charlie?

He hangs his head in unmistakable shame and Moira’s heart breaks.

“She…” he chokes out. “She... _was a he._ ”

\---

Moira had a friend in preparatory who was asked to the Christmas ball by a handsome boy. She turned him down. She, like the other girls, had talked excitedly about the prospect of being invited and nothing else for weeks and, still, she turned him down.

“Why did you say ‘no,’ you silly twit!” Moira had exclaimed.

“He’s a dandy,” Sarah had explained. “I want a date but I’m not _that_ desperate!” she had laughed.

Moira had frowned at that. She didn’t know the boy in question very well but neither, as far as she knew, had Sarah.

“How d’you know?” she asked.

Sarah had scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Och, Moira! Just look at him! You can see it can’t you? A woman always knows these things.”

So Moira had looked. She watched the boy for the rest of the day in class. How he behaved. How he spoke. How the other boys treated him. How he acted around the girls. Yes, Moira agreed, Sarah had been right. He was definitely a dandy.

\---

“…what?” She must not have heard correctly.

Charlie’s whole body seems to sag where he stands. He covers his face in his hands.

“Don’t make me say it, please, Moira.”

“Say what, exactly? You can’t… you can’t mean…?”

He nods miserably.

“Oh, God, darling… I’m so sorry,” he finally says, and then collapses to his knees in front of her.

“But… but you’re not like that! You’re not, Charlie! How… how can you be a, a--?” she doesn’t think she can say it, not aloud anyway. _Homosexual, nancy, faggot, dandy…_ the words parade through her mind but to say them aloud would make it real.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried not to be?” he all but sobs. “I don’t want to be this way! I can’t help it. But… I couldn’t lie to you any more.”

Moira’s shaking her head. He isn’t. It’s not true. She would know, wouldn’t she? She would feel it in her bones, in her heart of hearts, in the very sinew of her soul she would _know,_ wouldn’t she?

“How do you know, then?” she challenges. After all, she is a scientist. If her instincts have failed then surely her training will not. Where is her proof? Her empirical data?

His smile is tired and empty of warmth. The dim light catches on wrinkles that don’t exist during the day.

“I’ve always known. On some level, anyway. Kurt, he would say… well, nothing that bastard ever said is worth repeating or considering but… it got me thinking anyway. And then in school… there was a fellow. He… he…” he chokes on the words and has to pause to collect himself.

“I… Moira, I’ve never been with a woman. I’ve told you that but I… I can’t claim virginity in any case. I’ve not ever been unfaithful to you but… I’ve never been completely honest with you either.”

Then he’s on his feet again, digging through the pocket of his coat, cast off to the floor a lifetime ago in (lust? no) desperation.

“I’m being honest now though. It, it… God, Moira, I thought if I could love anyone, any _woman_ in the way I’m s-supposed to...” he takes a shuddering breath, “…it would be you.”

And then he’s reaching into the pocket, opening his hand curled around the little velvet box, like the kind that rings come it and… oh. Oh. Oh God, no.

“Moira.” He opens the box and there it is. A ring and, oh, how just like him, it isn’t a gaudy diamond (Lord, knows he could afford something like that too) but a pearl. A hand-set black pearl, caressed by diamond foam on a clear, cool silver band. Her mother would approve. It’s tasteful and expensive without being pretentious or showy. _Maybe that is proof enough_ , a traitor voice whispers. How could any normal, red-blooded, heterosexual man pick out something so perfect?

He reaches out to tip her chin. She’s still fixed on the box but he tilts her head gently so she’s meeting his eyes.

“Moira,” he says again. “I could do this with you, darling, I _would_ do it with you. It would be perfect, wouldn’t it? We are _so_ wonderful together. I love you so much, _acushla._ More than anything, more than anyone. I love you… just… not quite in that way. I don’t think I ever could but… I wouldn’t mind if I got to share the rest of my life with you. Could you… could you do this with me, darling? Could you forgive me this one fault and… Could you marry me, Moira?”

How many times has she imagined this moment? How many ways has she imagined him asking? How many nights has she spent dreaming of how she’d say _yes! God, yes, Charlie! Kiss me, you fool!_

Now she can only hear the wail of the storm outside. The howling whine of the wind for surely that is what that sound is, that rushing, crushing sound that is filling her ears and flooding her mind. It is so loud, it drowns out everything even, almost, but not quite, the sound of her voice as she tells him,

“Get out.”

He says something, maybe, she isn’t sure, really. Maybe he says several things or pleads for understanding but she isn’t sure because this is a dream and sometimes time can be a tricky thing in dreams. He collects his scattered uniform at one point, the dream-Charlie, he says a few more things before putting on his cap and leaving the dream-flat for some other place in her imagination. She curls up in the bed which is cold and empty but is nothing compared to how she feels inside. She drifts off to sleep thinking it will be better in the morning, after the rain is over and her world is no longer spinning off its axis.

\---

There is a velvet box sitting on the end table by her bed in the morning. She looks at it for a long time. She takes it in her hand, feels the heft of it, the weight it would make in a man’s pocket as he carried it across the continents. She takes it in her hand and throws it, smash against the wall.

Then she hangs her head and cries.


End file.
